


Pretty Little Things

by boom_slap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Gay Panic, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: The alternate title is "I can't help butt love you"
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 27
Kudos: 156





	Pretty Little Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DorMarunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/gifts), [Rainbowcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowcat/gifts).



> I had to get drunk to write this, you can blame DorMarunt who supplied me with pictures of Rodrigo's butt and Rainbowcat who basically told me it was my turn to write some smut lol

Andrés has always liked pretty things, whether it be shiny diamonds, colorful gems, glistening gold, works of art or women.

His newest pretty little thing, however, is a young man by the name of Martín. He’s an exchange student from Argentina, doesn’t speak a word of German, but seems delighted by the night life of the city, and he’s incredibly bright.

That’s what sparked Andrés’ interest. He came to the police station to bail out one of his accomplices and that’s where he found Martín, hammered, arrested for orchestrating some kind of explosion on the campus. In slurred English, he’s been trying to explain to the poor officer the exact thermodynamics laws he’d apparently applied to make sure the fire would burn beautifully, but without endangering anyone.

The officer didn’t look convinced, so Andrés left his dumb accomplice hanging and bailed Martín out instead.

Martín turned out to be quite an animal, studying and walking the city with Andrés during the day and going from rave to rave during the night. He was inexhaustible, wild and Andrés quickly decided to take him under his wing.

He’s all of ten years older and, to his infinite amusement, since the time he’d taken Martín to get his first tailored suit, the kid had taken to occasionally calling him _papi_.

That particular Saturday night, he pulls Martín out of one of the many gay clubs in Berlin, makes him dress in a black, sleek suit and drags him to one of the most exquisite nightclubs in the city instead. They spend the night drinking whiskey by the bar and talking, _hypothetically of course_ , about the possible ways of maybe stealing the bust of Queen Nefertiti from the Egyptian Museum, _wouldn’t that be fun_?

As they step outside, a little wobbly, it’s raining heavily. Andrés makes a move to call for a cab, but Martín stops him, grinning widely, his eyes shining and reflecting the lights from the street lamps in the same way the wet asphalt does.

“You have pretty eyes,” Andrés says before he can really think, staring at the droplets sticking to Martín’s lashes.

The other man - boy, really - immediately steps closer and offers a smile full of teeth.

“You told me you were straight, _papi_ , but you behave anything but,” he drawls with a thick accent.

“Eyes are eyes, Martín, doesn’t matter whether they are male or female,” Andrés smirks and looks up, blinking against the downpour. “Why are we getting soaked again?”

“Because I like getting wet,” he says simply, very pleased with himself, and starts walking in the direction of Andrés’ hotel apartment. Andrés has no choice but to follow; to be honest, it’s actually quite pleasant. The rain is wonderfully cold against his skin, which seems to be burning up from the alcohol he’d drunk.

They laugh at the sound of their shoes squeaking against the marble floors as they jog to the room. Andrés swipes his card and they enter, properly soaked through and shivering with cold. He closes the door, turns on the small lamp next to the bed and starts stripping out of his suit jacket.

He’s confident enough in his heterosexuality to start unbuttoning his shirt without a hint of worry about having a gay man in the same room; Andrés’ body is a work of art, after all, why not let Martín take a look and appreciate? He’s all lean muscles and elegant curves, with dark hair across his chest and abdomen. He knows he has nice, strong arms; he had seen Martín stare whenever he rolled up his sleeves. _God, I’m so hot_ , he thinks to himself with a grin, shrugging off his shirt, struggling a little as it tries to stick to his skin. _Poor kid is about to have a heart attack._

He turns around and suddenly, _he_ is the one having a heart attack, his eyes widening at the sight before him.

Martín is still in his soaked-through white shirt, but he’s already discarded his pants and is now bending down to pull off his socks.

The thing is-

Well-

Andrés had never seen an ass quite like this one.

He’d seen his fair share of butts, of course. The thing is- he likes his women petite and delicate, with lovely little bums, some fuller and rounder, sure, some very nice to the touch, obviously, but Martín’s fucking _ass_ is something else entirely, the damp fabric of his black cotton briefs wrapping itself _perfectly_ , _exquisitely_ around what seems to be an _ideal_ mixture of fat and muscle.

He wants to _bite_ into it, he realizes suddenly as he feels his mouth water.

The second thing he realizes is that he feels hot and the huge apartment seems small and sultry.

The third thing is that Martín has stopped struggling with his socks and he’s looking at Andrés over his shoulder, his eyes wide and darkened by something Andrés would probably describe as hunger if it weren’t for the fact that his brain has stopped functioning altogether.

When he follows Martín’s gaze, he realizes the final, most terrifying thing - he is hard like a rod, his erection impossible to hide since he prides himself in having a big fucking dick.

“Fuck,” he manages eloquently, taking a step back and flopping onto the bed when his legs bump against its edge.

He can only stare as Martín straightens up slowly, still looking over his shoulder, his hands coming to rest on his hips, his mouth stretching in a smile.

“Like what you see?” he purrs, one of his fingers slipping into his brief to pull back the elastic and then let it slap back into place with a loud _smack._

Andrés can’t help the amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but the panic gripping at his throat makes it hard to breathe.

“I’m not gay,” he groans, his voice raspy.

“Ohhh, but it doesn’t matter, does it?” Martín hums and he turns around, stalks over to Andrés and Andrés feels like _whining_ at the sight of Martín’s very own hard-on.

“An ass,” Martín whispers, leaning down to take Andrés’ hands in his, “is an ass after all, isn’t it?”

With that, he plasters Andrés’ hands to his backside. Andrés stares straight into his eyes and then, slowly but firmly, digs his fingers into the flesh. It feels _delicious._ He spreads the cheeks a little and swallows loudly before letting out a shaky breath.

Martín is grinning. He lets go of his hands and lightly pushes at his chest so that Andrés has to lean back on his elbows.

“Get comfortable,” Martín murmurs, his eyes ablaze, “and enjoy the fucking ride.”

He drops to his knees and Andrés hisses loudly, throwing his head back as Martín pulls his cock out of the dress pants and briefs. He feels a shiver running down his spine as the air meets his burning skin, but he quickly forgets about everything as Martín’s tongue presses to the tip of his member. Martín wastes no time, though, immediately moving on to licking from the base all the way to the top before swallowing down half of the length. Andrés is _not_ gay, but that doesn’t stop him from opening his eyes to see for himself the quickly reddening lips stretched out obscenely around his dick.

Martín is looking up at him, his eyes watering, teardrops sticking to his lashes just like the raindrops before.

He holds Andrés’ gaze as he slowly pulls up, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking hard enough that when he lets go, a loud _pop_ echoes through the otherwise quiet room.

Martín stands up and turns back, making a whole show out of it, moving leisurely, giving Andrés the view of his buttocks and he aches to touch, but he fears that his hands are going to shake too much. Martín moves his feet further apart, braces himself against Andrés’ knees and then, lowers his ass right onto his cock. It’s awfully sensitive and the soft cotton fabric feels rough against it, but Andrés groans with delight.

 _He must’ve done this before_ , Andrés manages to think and he feels a sudden stab of unexpected jealousy, but it quickly melts away in the waves of pleasure as Martín starts grinding against him.

The way he’s moving his hips in circles is nothing short of sinful, shameless in a way no woman of Andrés’ had ever been.

He’s panting loudly when, after a few minutes of absolutely _torturing_ him, Martín slows down to a stop, his legs shaking. He climbs onto the bed next to Andrés and leans down to whisper into his ear.

“Against the headboard.”

His voice is wavering now, low and strained with excitement. How can he possibly get any pleasure from that, Andrés can’t quite imagine. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and nods, pushes with his legs to move up the bed until he’s comfortable against the pillows. Martín straddles him again, knees on both sides of Andrés’ hips, facing away from him.

He starts moving again and Andrés swears he’s losing his mind; he’s past the point of caring. The pressure on his dick is almost insufferable, the friction rough and unrelenting, like nothing he’s ever experienced before. He grabs Martín’s hips, hard, the grip almost bruising as he starts thrusting against him.

A deep growl tears itself out of his chest when he realizes how much Martín is enjoying this. He has his head thrown back and he’s moaning like a whore from a cheap porn movie, his back glistening with sweat, the muscles tensing over and over again with every move.

Andrés watches him for a moment and when he feels heat pooling in his groin, he surges forward in an admittedly desperate attempt to regain some form of control.

It works, though.

Martín whines as he’s being pushed onto his chest and into the mattress. Andrés holds him down and grinds his hips against his ass with abandon, groaning loudly, his pace on the verge of punishing. He squeezes one of Martín’s perfect fucking buttocks, his other hand finding its way into his hair, gripping and pressing his face into the bed. He swears he can see Martín’s tongue sticking out of his mouth a little, dampening the white sheet with saliva.

That does, really; the orgasm crashes into him and he watches with wide eyes as streaks of his come soil the dark fabric of Martín’s briefs.

It is honestly the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

He doesn’t move right away; instead, he watches as Martín keeps rutting against the bunched up covers until he finally arches his back and comes with a weak cry.

They’re both panting as if they’ve just run a marathon. Andrés sits back, his eyes never leaving Martín’s body. After a moment, Martín pulls himself up, limbs shaking slightly. He stands up and he doesn’t look at Andrés as he goes to pick up his clothes.

Still hazy, but immensely satisfied, Andrés stretches out on the bed.

“Martín,” he says. His voice sounds weird even to his own ears. Martín glances at him and suddenly, he looks small, ashamed, uncertain.

Andrés is sure that if he wasn’t so spent, his cock would twitch at that.

“Come here.”

“I-... should clean myself up,” Martín murmurs, shifting awkwardly.

“You most definitely should not. Come on.”

Slowly, Martín steps to the side of the bed. Andrés grabs his wrist and pulls him down until he’s lying next to him, staring up with wide eyes, filled with wonder and sort of hopeful. Andrés wraps an arm around him and presses his nose into the sweat-matted hair.

The word Andrés is used to associating with sex is _pleasant._ What just happened was _mind-blowing._ He’s never come so hard, never in his entire life.

“I believe,” he says, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of rain as Martín’s hot breath tickles the side of his neck, “that it is our very duty, as humans, to experience every possible form of beauty in our life.”

His words are slightly slurred and he sighs, his hand wandering lazily up and down Martín’s spine.

“Therefore, what’s going to happen is this: we’re going to rest for a moment and then, I’m joining you in the shower so that you can show me _more.”_

The way Martín’s whole body melts against his own at those words feels absolutely intoxicating.


End file.
